Heart of Steel (9 page)

The captain looked pointedly at his cigarillo. “You court your sister's wrath. You're a brave man.”

Not that brave. “I don't smoke them near her. Only with you.”

“Why is that?”

“They're expensive, and although a bulging purse in my pants might appeal to you, it also attracts the wrong sort of attention.”

“So they boast that you're wealthy?” Her eyes were bright with amusement or opium. Perhaps both. “But not rich enough, if you need the sketch so badly.”

“True,” he said. “But that will change after I sell it.”

If he had any money left over after he settled his debt, that was. He felt her assessing stare as he sank into the chair and began pulling on his boots.

Her expression thoughtful, she tapped ash into her palm. “If you sell it quickly at auction in the Ivory Market, you won't receive as much from the sale as you could from a private collector. You probably won't even receive as much as the sketch is worth—and my twenty-five percent won't amount to as much as it could be.”

“It won't, but I don't have the luxury of time.”

“I propose a deal, then. I'll hold on to the sketch—or we can ask a third party whom we both trust to keep it for us.”

Who did a woman like Yasmeen trust? “Is there such a person?”

“The Iron Duke.”

Archimedes laughed. Almost ten years ago, when the Iron Duke had only been known as the pirate captain Rhys Trahaearn and Archimedes had still been smuggling weapons as Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste, he'd provided Trahaearn with enough explosives to destroy the Horde's controlling tower in London. After Archimedes delivered the bombs to
Marco's Terror
, however, Trahaearn hadn't trusted him enough to sail with them—and into the ocean he'd gone.

“He threw me over the side of his ship, too.”

“Yet you aren't destined to court
him
?”

He flattened his hand over his heart, fluttered his lashes. “Alas, the sight of his face does not make me catch my breath.”

“And Scarsdale?”

“Your lover?” Or friend. During the journey to Venice they'd all shared dinner in her cabin, and Archimedes hadn't been able to determine exactly what the relationship between the mercenary captain and the Earl of Scarsdale was. But whatever the nature of it, Scarsdale posed no threat. The man was terrified of heights, and Captain Corsair would never abandon her airship.

“Yes.” She turned to the bureau and began sheathing knives, tucking away pistols. “You get along well with him.”

“But do I trust him to hold the sketch? He might use it to tempt you into running away with him and making you his countess.”

She snorted, a half-laugh that emerged on a puff of smoke.

That response was good enough for Archimedes. “But suppose I did trust them. What would you propose?”

“Take the cash I have aboard my lady. If that isn't enough, I'll withdraw the money I keep in trust for the aviators' families. You pay off your debt, and we sell the sketch at our leisure . . . each receiving fifty percent.”

A fine proposal, but with one flaw. “You have ten thousand livre?”

Her ragged gasp cut off mid-inhalation. She choked, coughing on smoke and astonishment. She pounded her fist against her chest, stared at him with wide, watering eyes.

“Ten
thousand
?”

“Yes.”

“By the lady's shining teeth,” she breathed. “Little wonder you changed your name. Altogether, I only have a fifth of that.”

A significant fortune by any standard, but still not enough. Archimedes stood and stomped his feet more snugly into the tall leather boots, ignoring the shouted curse from the room below.

“We need to be aboard your airship before the hour is up,” he reminded her.

He half-expected her to kill him now, but she only shook her head, muttered “Ten thousand,” and started for the door. On the stairs, she tied the kerchief over her hair, but waited until they were outside before speaking again.

“How the hell did you stack up ten thousand in debt?”

“I lost a shipment.”

“One shipment worth that?”

“Yes.” He tossed the stub of his cigarillo into the water sloshing against the dock. “My supplier was unhappy.”

“If you'd lost ten thousand of mine, I'd have killed you for it, too.”

But she wouldn't kill him for a sketch worth more? He didn't ask, though. No need to encourage her. “Zenobia told me what you did to Mattson. Thank you for that.”

“You can thank me with fifty percent.” She arched her brow at him when he laughed. “No? Don't give me your gratitude, then. It was never for her. Mattson tried to cheat me with an actress. Did he believe I'd be so stupid and not see through it?”

“The actress tried to cheat you, too. She's still alive.”

“And she was as much of a threat to me as you are: none. Unless, of course, you manage to make a fool of me. She didn't.”

But he had. Archimedes fought the sinking sensation in his gut. “How many men have ever managed to make a fool of you?”

She offered her hard-edged smile and glanced down at the bracelet. “The better question is: How many are still alive?”

“One,” he guessed.

“And if you'd like to keep it that way, Mr. Fox, make certain not to do it again.” She smoothed her woolen cuff down her wrist, hiding the bracelet. “If you even
suggest
to my crew that you've threatened your way aboard my lady, I'll rip out your spine.”

He could see she meant it. God. “That's unbearably arousing.”

She swept a considering look the length of his body, pausing once. Her gaze lifted to his again. “Your purse is bulging, Mr. Fox. Tuck it away before you board.”

There wasn't any room in his breeches to tuck it, but a walk to the end of the docks and the breeze carrying the harbor's stench into his face did the trick. Yasmeen stopped beside
Lady Corsair
's steel tethering cable and gave it three hard strikes with the flat of a blade. Above, a woman's head popped over the side, her pale blond hair washed in gold by the light of the deck lanterns. Ms. Pegg, Archimedes remembered from the journey to Venice. After the captain had taken her knife from his throat and allowed him on board, Pegg had shown him to his cabin, shaking her head all the way as if he'd been headed to the gallows rather than a finely appointed stateroom.

Silently, Yasmeen held up her fist. Pegg nodded and disappeared. A loud
clank
sounded. A moment later, the cargo platform unfolded from the side of the wooden ship and lowered on rattling chains. When it reached a few feet above the docks, the captain leapt to the metal platform and struck one of the chains. It jolted to a halt, and Archimedes climbed up before it reversed direction. She looked him over, cool amusement settling into her expression.

Ah. So his presence would be played as a joke in front of her crew. That suited Archimedes. If no one took him seriously, no one would consider him a threat—and they'd ask fewer questions when he left.

The platform rose, and the loud continuous clink of the chains being winched into the windlass prevented any further conversation until the platform clanged into place against the rail.

Yasmeen hopped to the deck. “Thank you, Ms. Pegg.”

Pegg's hand remained frozen on the windlass's lever, her eyes wide and fixed on Archimedes' face. After a sharp look from the captain, the aviator managed to stammer a reply. Yasmeen nodded briskly and started for the quarterdeck. Archimedes followed, aware of the nudges and whispers moving from aviator to aviator, the surprise and the disbelief. Several crossed themselves—they must have been Castilian, Lusitanian, or hedging their bets.

And amusement was exactly the right way to play his return from the dead, Archimedes realized. It was as if the captain had never expected any other outcome after she'd thrown him from the ship.

Rousseau waited amidships, near the ladder that led to the lower decks. The quartermaster had been with
Lady Corsair
since the war, but whether he'd fought for the French or Liberé, Archimedes hadn't been able to guess. Aside from the lift of impressive black brows, the man didn't comment on his miraculous reappearance.

Formally, he stepped to the side as Yasmeen approached, deferring to her lead. “Your ship, Captain,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Rousseau.” She crushed out her cigarillo. “You remember Mr. Fox, of course, and how our last meeting concluded with me dropping him into a canal to see whether he could swim.”

The quartermaster's mouth twitched. “Yes, Captain.”

“It turns out that he can. So I've lost that bet, and now I'll feature in his newest adventure.”

“As a villain, of course,” Archimedes said. No need to tarnish her reputation.

“Of course, sir.” Rousseau looked him over. “How far did you have to swim?”

“Only to the door I'd been using as a raft. From there, I rowed to sea.”

Rousseau nodded. “A boat picked you up?”

“Yes.” And a boat in the Adriatic meant either smugglers or Horde fishermen. “But if I tell you about it now, you won't have reason to buy copies of the serial adventure.”

The amusement in Yasmeen's eyes warmed to something genuine. She continued on to the ladder. “Mr. Rousseau, please inform Ginger that I'll be in my cabin. I won't need dinner, but she can bring mine for Mr. Fox.”

“Right away, Captain.” Rousseau turned toward the bank of copper pipes that ran throughout the ship and allowed the aviators to communicate between decks.

Archimedes followed Yasmeen down the ladder and into a dimly lit passageway. Ropes and gliders hung from bulkheads. At the end of the corridor, the captain's quarters occupied almost a full third of the deck, with the passenger cabins directly below. Narrow doors along the passageway led to locked storerooms and berths for the senior crew members.

A sturdy, dark-haired girl of twelve or thirteen in a cobalt tunic and loose trousers emerged from a small cabin near the entrance to the captain's quarters. Archimedes had a glimpse of bunks filled with two more girls before she slid the door closed. The girl turned to the side to let them pass, standing tall with her shoulders pressed against the wooden bulkhead.

“Only one dinner, Captain?”

“Yes, Ginger.” She hauled off her long coat and handed it over to the girl. “Tea for me.”

As soon as they were past, the girl took off at a run, her bare feet slapping the boards. Though Archimedes wasn't hungry, he wouldn't refuse food from
Lady Corsair
's galley. Fragrant and delicious, the dinner he'd taken here had rivaled any other meal that he'd ever eaten. The same couldn't be said of the fare on many airships.

Still, he had to wonder about the offer. “Should I check for poison?”

“I can fit my fist between your stomach and the buckles of your waistcoat, Mr. Fox. How long were you at sea?”

Long enough. The whole ordeal had stripped every pound of extra weight from his body and then some. But if his appearance made her imagine putting her hands under his clothes, it was worth the hunger he'd suffered. “As I'm still alive, it obviously wasn't
too
long.”

“And what sort of boat rescued you?” She glanced back at him. “As you are still alive, it obviously wasn't a smuggler's.”

“No, but I'll ask Zenobia to tell it that way.”

“And what would be the true route?”

“A fisherman's boat to Pflaum. From there, I decided between walking north along the top of the Hapsburg Wall, or taking a grain barge to Cairo.”

“Zombies or a city full of Horde soldiers,” she said. “What did you choose?”

“In summer, I'd have chosen the wall. Winter, the only choice is Cairo.” Where there hadn't been nearly as many soldiers as he'd expected; they'd been replaced by rumors—the most popular that they'd been ordered east to defend the heart of the empire. “From there, I boarded an airship to the Ivory Market, and then a ship to Port Fallow.”

“All without your purse?”

“I stowed away and stole what I needed to. And I still had my guns.”

“You threatened your way aboard? That didn't work so well the last time.”

Archimedes disagreed. She'd thrown him overboard but he'd ended up on her lady again, so it had worked perfectly well. He didn't mind taking a roundabout way. “I traded the guns. Horde rebels are always looking for weapons.”

“That they are, though the rebels are also difficult to find.” Yasmeen lifted her cabin's door latch and led the way inside. “Interesting that you knew where to look for them.”

He bowed before stepping through the entrance. “I have many talents, Captain.”

With a roll of her eyes, she shook her head and crossed her quarters toward the writing desk bolted to the starboard bulkhead. He watched the pull of her tight breeches across her luscious bottom before glancing around her quarters—the same quarters his father had once occupied. Gone were the shelves of leather-bound books, the unforgivably firm bunk, the straight-backed chairs, and the solemn table as simply made as the sparse fare that had topped it. Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste had been a lean, hard man, and his cabin had been the same.

Though also lean and hard, Yasmeen had filled her quarters with softness and color. His boots sank into thickly woven rugs. Bright silk cushions surrounded a low mahogany table; carved grapevines and leaves created an intricate pattern in the wood. In the recessed berth, red curtains formed a tent over her mattress, which appeared to be little more than an enormous pillow. The cabin's two portholes had been enlarged to let in more light, and between them hung a large metal cage. Inside, two lovebirds flitted and chirped.